


The Name Left to Me

by TrailingEducation



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Children of Characters, Fate, Gay Male Character, M/M, Magic, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrailingEducation/pseuds/TrailingEducation
Summary: The Dragon-Slayer is a man of great legend, but keeps his secrets close. When he is forced into the service of the famed Inquisition, those secrets are bound to be revealed - especially when he meets Dorian Pavus. But there is more to his tale than even he knows. The Vessel of the Maker has sacrificed his entire life for the Chantry. How much more must he give?
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. The Dragon-Slayer

** The Name Left to Me **

He had dreamt of that place before, in a time long since past and forgotten.

Flashes of skies painted impossible colours; a storm that raged in his ears, but not his eyes; the mountains that hung upside-down, or sat atop gnarled trees made of sapphire and granite; and in the distance, that forsaken city, black as charred wood, looming just out of reach and never closer. When he stumbled forward, the ground came to meet him – but he had not fallen. It felt as raindrops under his fingers. From the periphery of his vision he saw playful wisps that dodged his sight, and though he opened his mouth no sound emerged but a strangled, besieged cry. His temple throbbed, until he was certain his head would burst and he would be lost to that world forever.

Then, he saw it.

The figure crested a hill far off on the horizon, and he felt the hair on his neck rise; as if what he saw before him was the truth in a lie. He could make out no features, but he knew from its serpentine frame and the blue robe it wore, that it was an elf. Or, at least, it took the shape of one.

It reached out to him. A man’s voice, at once comforting and familiar, called out to him, though he could not hear the words. He tried to respond – tried to haul himself from his knees and force his way to him – but invisible weights crushed against his back and chest, and he could do no more than rasp in anguish.

The world started to unravel. The seams that held it in place, fluid and ever-shifting, became solid, and collapsed in the same instant. He looked to see the figure’s gestures become more frantic, more harried, as his vision became blurred and his head pulsed and the storm in his ears reached its crescendo. As it all buckled around him, he heard one desperate, distant cry, calling out over thunder:

“ _No_!”

* * *

He awoke with a start, and found a frozen and unwelcoming wind howling across the fields.

It was a dark night, with no moon or stars in the sky, but he breathed a sigh of relief as shucked his threadbare cover and looked up at the ash-coloured clouds. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the twisting trees that whistled in the wind, the distant shacks that had been abandoned long before he had ever set foot there. At his feet, his horse laid asleep, huffing hot breaths of steam the curled and vanished in the air. Above his head, a shrine to Andraste stood, humble in its craftmanship; the work of farmers more accustomed to hard labour than fine art. Had it not been for the crude sun carved into the space above her head or the wilted offerings left at her feet, he may not have recognised it to be Andraste at all.

He reached up to clutch at his amulet. It was a weight around his neck, a reminder of what he was – what fate had made him. But it also anchored him to reality, and the lingering touch of the dream world faded as the Chantry sun’s sharp edges bit into his hand.

“Just another nightmare…” he murmured. It had been over a decade since he had suffered it. Often he forgot his dreams on waking, perhaps remembering a glimpse of a fiery tower, or a strong emotion, but that place – that place left an imprint in his mind that had never fully disappeared.

He reached over to stroke his stallion’s midnight-dark flank. It rose and fell, warming the palm of his hand against the wind’s chill. Even if his hair whipped at his face and the cold sank into his skin, he could always find comfort in Onyx.

But the storm was encroaching, and his destination was some miles yet, though the thought of reaching it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He imagined the polished stone, how slick the streets would be underfoot, how the people would gape and stare. But in truth, he had no choice. Onyx needed a warm stable to wait out the worst of the gale, and his supplies had dwindled in the aftermath of the war.

“Then it’s time to leave,” he said, partly to himself, as he rose from the floor. He shook the stiffness of his limbs and ignored the protests of old wounds. There was a hard road ahead of him, and even if the sun had not risen, he could not wait for it.

* * *

He prayed with his head low, protected from the rain by an overhanging rock, his horse huffing half-protests and stamping its hooves on the frozen ground. He prayed for the people he was leaving behind – the farmers in their homes, shuttered up against the storm; the peasants with their rickety huts and half-made rooftops; and the travellers, the ones who sought new heights and new worlds, that Mother Nature protected as fiercely as the Dalish did their secrets.

The winds urged his prayer on, and when he finished the rider rose to full height and clambered atop his horse. The rain hammered against one side of his cloak as he peered out at the roaring gale. Then, with a sigh, he snapped the reins, and he and his steed flew off into the night.

He galloped past trees twisting and writhing in agony for miles, and the lightning flashing overhead blinded him until he could hardly see. It was some few hours before he saw the dark, iron gates loom in front of him, painted black against the stormy sky. The sight of the city sent chills down his spine.

Val Royeaux.

As the rider closed the distance between them, he steeled himself against the thought of it.

The watchtowers appeared to rise from the ground the closer he came. He saw the guards underneath the canopies with their Chantry symbols on proud display, haloed with the firelight that danced just behind them. A crack of lightning lit up their faces, and the rider saw hard frowns and peering, distrustful eyes, watching him as he came to a steady halt in the tower’s half-light.

"Hold!" one shouted. They took aim with their bows. He could almost hear the string strain and the creaks of worn wood. "State your business!"

"To wait out the storm!" he replied. The pair paused and turned to confer with each other, stealing glances at him all the while. The second soldier peered over the ledge of his viewpoint. The rider held his stare.

He looked up at his partner and nodded.

"Open the gates!" the first shouted. "Horse for the stables!"

The iron bars groaned open, a noise so loud and ominous that it rumbled lower than the thunder itself. Rain whipped at his face as Onyx trotted inside. The sound of his hooves gave empty echoes against the stone, and for a moment the rider wondered if he had made a mistake. But the thought was fleeting, and soon he was surrounded by the lavish decorations of Val Royeaux's famous bazaar.

"Easy, Onyx," he hushed the stallion as the pair of them drew closer to the stables, "Once the storm's over, we'll be out in the fields again." There was a warm, soft light tucked in the corner of an alcove that signalled the stables ahead, and with the end in sight and a comfortable bed in mind the rider hurried his horse along.

The stables were large, but with several braziers place strategically about and the smell of hay in the air the atmosphere was cosy and inviting. The rider climbed off of his horse and looked for a suitable empty shed, listening to the low huff of mares and the stamping of stallions in need of exercise.

There was a stable-hand; a young man of about twenty with soft blue eyes and pale skin, wearing clothes that hinted towards some lower noble house. He seemed almost ghostly in the firelight. Once he caught sight of the rider, he hurried over with an apologetic smile.

"Apologies monsieur!" he said in a rush. "I didn't see you come in." The rider held out the reins for him to take. "Mare or stallion?"

"Stallion," he replied.

"I'll put him here, then, with the others. Payment can be left on the table – I will put it in the lodger once you've left us."

He nodded and turned to depart, but Onyx caught his eye before he could. He caressed his mane, admiring the sinews of his muscular neck, the curve of his head as he brayed low in the warmth.

"Take care of him," he told the boy. "He's the best horse I’ve ever had.”

"Of course, monsieur. Will there be anything else?"

He paused. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out an overfilled sack tied with a small knot and threw it into the boy’s hand.

"Grain," he explained. "In case he becomes restless. He's used to open spaces, not…stables."

The rider stayed until Onyx was penned up and fed. He departed once he was certain his horse was comfortable – and on the assurance that the sheds were strong enough to weather the storm – to find an inn somewhere in the city, and stumbled across one almost as soon as he had stepped out into the bazaar. The wind and rain lashed at his face as he peered at the little sign flapping wildly above the door:

**_'MERRICASTLE'._ **

He went towards it. On closer inspection it was not quite an inn as he imagined them. Made of marble with two bronze lions guarding the entrance, it had the expensive, regal feel that Orlais was most known for; a taste of nobility for those who could afford it. Even the windows were large and ornate. With his light coin purse he determined he would go elsewhere, but as he turned to leave he heard the door open and a warm, accented voice call out, "Come in, come in!"

The rider hesitated, and though he considered ignoring it he soon found his feet had turned and he was already at the door. Rolling his shoulders, he surveyed the streets once more before he slipped inside, fastening the door against the wind behind him.

Once inside, he found that the ornamental theme continued and sprawled out into several different rooms. There were large arches that led to an enormous dining hall, the tables and chairs empty of all but a few well-dressed patrons, and a selection of 'recreational rooms' that were specialised to all tastes; reading, painting, even knitting. His cloak dripped on the flagstone floor.

"Messer!" said the voice. He turned towards it and found a woman standing near him, her smile bright and inviting. She wore an expensive petticoat with a tight waist, and a dress that draped on the floor in a perfect circle; she even wore a half-mask of silver with odd patterns swirling near the eyes.

"I'm sorry," he started, "I don't have enough coin for—"

"I know you!" she interrupted him. "I've heard about you, from my mother's stories! Messer, it's an honour!"

His smile tightened. Her eyes, so bright and cheerful, never picked up on the dark cloud suddenly looming over her guest's mood. She moved past him towards a small stand with an open lodger, continuing to talk as he pivoted and followed her.

"My mother told me the most fantastical things! Wyverns the size of giants! Battles with over a hundred men! I listened to her stories for hours as a child!"

He was silent to her chatter, but smiled and nodded on the occasions she paused for his response. She wittered on about fantastic beasts and where to find them – demons in the Western Approach, wyverns in the Exalted Plains, darkspawn in Denerim – all the while he watched as she flipped the pages over in her lodger, holding a quill aloft in the air.

"Ah, yes!" the lady exclaimed mid-sentence. "I've one room left, Messer!" He stopped her hand before she could scratch his name in.

"Forgive me, miss, but I haven't enough coin for—"

"Coin? Oh no, Messer! It's an honour to welcome you to our fair city, free of charge!"

The lady freed her hand and wrote his name. His arm dropped to his side, his smile fleeting and empty.

"Come, come! I'll show you to your room!"

The pair left as soon as she had finished scrawling his entry:

**_The Dragon-Slayer._ **

* * *

"This is yours!"

She opened the door with a flourish, revealing a room of decent size with a marble fireplace and a four-poster bed. As he stepped inside, the rider gave it a cursory glance; mahogany dressers with golden handles; a silver tray on a nightstand with a small crystalline decanter; emerald sheets on a soft mattress. The fire was not lit, but his hostess promised him over and over that she would send someone immediately to do so.

"It's fine, miss," he said, shedding his sodden cloak and setting it down on the drawing table's chair. "I can light it myself."

She laughed. "Ah, but you've done it so often on your travels – let me send someone to help you!"

"It’s alright. I’ll need no help. Apologies, but I've had a long journey—"

"Oh! It's fine, Messer, truly!" the lady turned and added, "Please, if you need anything do not hesitate to ask!" and with that, she went out of the room and closed the door, finally leaving him on his own. He took the sudden silence as an opportunity to sit down and collect his thoughts, holding his head in his hands with a sigh.

There was a pause before he had gathered his wits enough to stand. He lit the fire with some matches and kindling left in a tarnished silver cauldron hidden in the corner, then as the flames danced and grew he found his eye drawn to the large windows beside his bed. Rain spattered against the glass as lightning forked across dark skies. Thunder rumbled low and ominous across the city. He watched in silence.

After a while, he turned and untied the holsters he kept strapped to his hips. As he put them beside the decanter he inspected the weapons inside; his twin dragon's tooth blades with their jewelled hilts, each precious stone glinting at him in the firelight. He caressed the patterns that swirled around them as he set them down.

The rider shed himself of his clothes and turned his attention to old wounds; scars he needed to care for, and fresh cuts and bruises that he told himself he would let a Chantry healer inspect. He shuddered at the thought. The Chantry was always quick to remind him of the 'divine purpose' he had been bestowed.

There was another clap of thunder outside. He wondered again about those he had left out there, the people in need that lived beyond the city walls. The guilt weighed heavily on him.

_Two days_ , he promised himself. _In two days I'll leave this place._

He sighed and settled his aching bones down on the bed. He asked himself if coming to Val Royeaux had been the right choice. Questioned whether or not he had simply ignored other options. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes against the lightning that flashed from his window.

It was not often that the Dragon-Slayer came to the city.


	2. Blessed

It was to the sound of rain that the Dragon-Slayer’s eyes first inched open, and the room blurred slowly into focus around him. An iron-grey sky welcomed him when he turned over, in stark contrast to the white-and-blue spires that stood like spikes around Merricastle.

As he sat up and stretched, he realised it had been a dreamless sleep. No strange world that crushed his strength, and no distant elf on the horizon, reaching, calling out for him. But the queer, malignant feel of that place lingered, and almost to comfort himself he reached over to touch the hilts of his blades. With a slow exhale, the Dragon-Slayer focused himself on the feel of the jewels, their familiar cut, and tried to shake the experience from his mind. He had seen worse, he reasoned; the waking world carried enough horrors in it to fill a thousand nightmares. His dreams, however dark, would not drive him to madness.

Far too much had happened for that.

* * *

Perhaps the chill of the Frostback Mountains was bitter, and the lack of civilisation around Skyhold difficult to adjust to at times, but for Theodore Trevelyan, there was no finer sight than that of the sun cresting over snow-capped peaks, nor the smell of rain carried on a half-frozen wind.

The Inquisitor lifted a mug of warm tea to his lips as he watched the sunrise. It was rare to find a moment of peace, but in the stillness of the early morning, when not even the birds had stirred from their slumber, he felt such an intense connection with the world around him – that he was not only a part of it, but that it had shaped him in some way, made him better than he could have been alone. It reminded him that he was human, even after all that had happened. His elbows rested on the balcony banister, for those precious few minutes, the war felt lifetimes past.

But when he heard the hurried footsteps of heeled shoes on his stairs, Theodore sighed and turned to walk into his bedchamber.

“Inquisitor!” came Josephine’s familiar voice, though a touch more flustered than he ever recalled hearing it. She entered his room with a certain urgency in her step, and he noticed strands of hair had not been smoothed into her bun, as if she had been awoken unexpectedly.

“Josephine? What is it?”

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but our spies—”

The woman paused, for her words were almost a jumble, and steadied herself with a short, sharp exhale. Running a hand through her hair, she composed herself quickly; a quality that Theodore had come to appreciate over the course of their endeavours.

“I apologise,” she said. “I was awoken quite suddenly, and…well, it doesn’t matter. One of our spies sent word to us that something unusual has happened in Val Royeaux.”

“Unusual?” the Inquisitor set his tea on his desk and leant against it. “That city always seems to have something unusual going on. What was the report?”

Josephine did not need to refer to the board in her hand to answer him. She had the notes imprinted in her mind, either from shock or disbelief, and barely even held it aloft when she spoke. “We were informed that the Vessel was seen entering the city last night, during an unseasonably violent storm.”

There was a pause. For a brief moment Theodore could not quite grasp her words, as if she had spoken them in the lost elven language, or he had lost his senses. But then he shook his head once, and in astonishment he replied:

“The Vessel? I…I don’t believe it. Are they certain it’s him?”

“I was sceptical as well, Your Grace, but their description of the man convinced me,” she referred this time to her board. “‘A rogue of average height, dark hair, and athletic build, riding upon an ebon horse and armed with blades that appeared, at least in the low visibility, to be jewelled’.”

“That does sound similar to the tales,” the Inquisitor conceded, “but it’s still so unbelievable. Are our agents tracking him?”

“They are,” she drew closer to him, her lips pursed and contemplative, the blues and golds of her outfit glinting in the pale sunlight that poured in from the windows. “Our reports say that he has taken a room at one of the inns – ‘Merricastle’. No doubt he will be attended by the Grand Cathedral Mothers while in residence. We _must_ send an emissary before he moves on. An alliance with the Dragon-Slayer would help cement our relevance since Corypheus’ defeat.”

“I agree. Have someone sent to Val Royeaux as soon as possible. Perhaps a raven to Leliana—I mean, Divine Victoria, so she can delay him?”

“The Divine’s powers over the Vessel are…minimal, so to speak. She may be able to delay him with ceremony, but otherwise she has no formal privileges that she can employ. I shall send a missive, regardless. Leliana is, after all, a resourceful woman.”

Theodore nodded, and recalled the deft hand with which his former spymistress had organised their spy network, how she manipulated events behind the scenes to prove favourable odds for the Inquisition. “Then we should move. We won’t have a chance like this again.”

* * *

Incense was heavy in the air – a blanket of smoke, prophet’s laurel, elfroot, and fresh jasmine, suffocating in the dim candlelight. He knelt before a pool of shallow water with hands clasped in prayer, his shirt laid out behind him as he murmured soft words, almost too quiet to carry in the stillness.

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade,” said he, as tall-hatted Mothers in red and white robes stood vigil far behind him, their aged eyes reverent when they looked upon the scars that decorated his back. “For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s light. And nothing that He has wrought has been lost.”

There was a loaded silence that followed, and he felt his shoulders tense under the weight of it. His fingers clasped harder, until the skin around his fingertips became white.

“The Vessel’s Chant,” came a soft, accented voice behind him; one of the Mothers, though he did not turn to look at her. In fact, the Dragon-Slayer did not even open his eyes. “Devotions of His Fiery Sword. Blessed are we, who are not chosen to wield the Maker’s strength in our shoulders, nor His courage in our hearts, to hear it sung.”

The tap of her feet on the cold stone floor almost sent shivers up his spine. His hands came to rest on his knees, his mouth a hard line across his face, and his eyes remained shut to the world around him. Without his sight, he could feel her body heat, how she stood just a few inches from him, how the water and the incense mingled and became a scent so strongly _religious._ Her robes brushed against his skin, and he heard her shoes creak as she leaned ever-so-slightly towards him. Her voice sounded too human for that venerable hall.

“Are you ready, Your Grace?”

His chest heaved with a long, drawn-out breath. “Yes.”

“Blessed are we, to bear witness to the Vessel’s Chant,” she intoned, and behind him, a dour chorus:

“Blessed are we, to bear witness.”

The water was colder than he remembered.

* * *

Dorian had, in the course of a _very_ short afternoon, finished most of the wine he had ‘procured’ from the kitchen, and boredom had well settled in.

Without the commotion of war preparations, the rotunda had fallen rather quiet as of late. The odd dignitary would wander in, look about, have a peruse of the shelves, and perhaps if brave would ask to see the former spymistress’ quarters – a request that was always denied. It had become so dull that the mage had even started to miss Solas’ occasional cough, or the caw of ravens overhead; or even that odd elven fellow that had run himself ragged searching for books. If not for Maevaris’ correspondences, he would have truly gone mad.

As he looked out through the window to the snow outside, Dorian wondered how warm Tevinter was at that moment. It would be the late evening there, and he could imagine the stars shining against a clear sky, or the dancers of Vivazi Plaza, underneath the large, cracked bell. The strum of instruments on a cooling breeze, no blizzard to fight through on the streets, no need to shrug on a coat five times larger than himself. It would smell of sweet red wine at that time of year. How he missed it.

He did not even notice he had started to smile, until he heard a voice to the side of him ask, “Caught you reminiscing, Sparkler?”

The mage started, his head snapping to see Varric approach, a slight smirk on his face and his hair pulled into that short ponytail. The dwarf wandered up to him, lackadaisical in his gait, but there was a glint in his eye that hinted he had come with interesting news.

“Don’t you have any letters from the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild left to burn?” quipped Dorian. It prompted a short chuckle from his companion.

“Not today,” he replied, “but I _have_ heard a rumour, if you’re interested.”

“Taking over Leliana’s old job, are we? I suppose rebuilding Kirkwall from the ground up isn’t as exciting as it looks.”

Varric shook his head. “Yeah, it looks like ambassadorship to the Imperium is keeping your hands full, too.”

“Touché.” He poured the final glass of wine and offered it to the dwarf, who declined with a polite wave of his hand. “No wine? Are you feeling well, Varric?”

“I need a clear head. All jokes aside, there’s a mountain of paperwork on my desk downstairs, and some of it I’ve put off a day too long. When I heard this, though, I just couldn’t let it sit. So, I figured I’d come tell you.”

“Well,” Dorian raised the glass as if in toast, “let’s hear it, then. What’s running Skyhold’s rumour mill this week?”

“According to some ambassadors speaking _way_ too loudly in the hall, the Dragon-Slayer’s in Val Royeaux – and Josephine’s sending an emissary to speak to him.”

The mage’s eyebrow rose, swirling the wine in hand. “I can’t decide whether that’s too specific to be a lie, or too outlandish to be the truth.”

“I didn’t believe it either, at first,” he admitted, “but then I saw Josephine and the Inquisitor whispering to each other near the throne. Something’s going on, and I’ll bet gold it’s to do with the Dragon-Slayer.”

“Oh, is that what you want, Tethras? A bet?”

The dwarf shrugged, though his smirk had returned. “Me? Bet? Of course not. I’m an upstanding member of the Inquisition. But, I should get back to that paperwork. Keep your ear to the ground, Sparkler – I have that feeling I get when something big’s about to happen.”

It was with that the Varric took his leave, and once more Dorian was left with the wine in his hand and the half-written letter on his desk. He leant back in his chair, crossing a leg over the other, looking into the depths of his glass as he thought on his friend’s news. If the Dragon-Slayer _was_ in Val Royeaux, it would be the first time since he was appointed the Vessel of the Maker. Josephine had mentioned more than once that an alliance with such a rare figure would have helped cement the Inquisition’s position as a stabilising force, had anyone been able to track him to a specific location. But the mage could not see much reason for an alliance now, except as the death rattle of an organisation that needed new purpose; and he was not certain that their offer would even be accepted.

As he sipped his drink, he was thankful that it was not his job to convince him.


End file.
